


Maintaining the Peace

by lilith_lessfair



Category: Hannibal (TV), Miss Marple - Agatha Christie
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:35:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26367307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilith_lessfair/pseuds/lilith_lessfair
Summary: Because, apparently, Hannibal was simply waiting to be hauled out of the present day and replaced in an English village during the interwar years (What Bryan Fuller?  You weren’t.  Pity.), two expat veterans of the First World War arrive in St. Mary Mead. One is a former count from within the Russian Empire who had also received medical training and studied with the infamous Dr. Freud while the other had served in the American Expeditionary Forces and also worked briefly as a policeman somewhere in the United States. Not long after their arrival, a highly-disagreeable gentleman from an neighboring village has disappeared. Miss Marple is on the case and is being helped (or is it hindered) by these newcomers.
Relationships: Miss Marple/sanity, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 25
Kudos: 24





	1. Chapter 1

St. Mary Mead was abuzz. A removal service and a series of vehicles had been spotted outside the Old Vicarage, and a several pieces of furniture, all carefully-wrapped and covered were seen to be delivered within it under the watchful gaze of an extraordinarily beautiful young woman seemingly of Japanese descent. More interestingly, from the perspective of the villagers, two men were later spotted arriving in a very elegant Daimler Double Six coupe. The driver who steered the vehicle with an expert hand and predatory grace was older, slightly taller and more broadly built. He was immaculately dressed and had the air of an individual of whom a single hair upon his head would not dare to be out of place. His companion was slight but with curly hair and blue eyes that caused several young women along the road to catch their breath. Miss Marple could not help but think he seemed more than typically nervous, even in the very short time it took the pair to drive past.

As was to be expected, the buzz did not abate in a day or two or ten or, even, twenty. Visitors arrived far more often than one might have imagined in a small, isolated village such as St. Mary Mead. But they were seldom as unusual as these three. 

“They say that he was a count,” Ellspeth MacGillicuddy said. She and Miss Caroline Attwell were seated in Miss Marple’s sitting room enjoying a late afternoon tea. “The older one, of course. Apparently, he was a count but lost his family and his ancestral home in the Russian Revolution.”

“How tragic,” crooned Miss Attwell, “and how romantic.”

“Tragic, certainly,” said Miss Marple. “But I’m afraid I have difficulty imagining how losing’s one’s home and family could be romantic. I think it would have a terrible effect upon a person, perhap an irrevocable one.” 

“True,” said Ellspeth.

“Who are the other two persons staying at the Old Vicarage?” Miss Marple asked, extending a plate of sandwiches. It seemed the crusts had not been entirely removed. She would have to discuss this with the maid later. 

“The woman is their housekeeper,” Ellspeth said. “Apparently, she’s been with the doctor’s family for years. She managed his estate for him when he was in medical school.” 

“She sounds quite capable, especially for someone who appears not to be very old.”

“She is very quiet,” Ellspeth said, “and a little different. I saw her yesterday walking down the road with a rifle and a pair of grouse. She must have been on the Viscount’s estate. I do hope she received permission.”

“Indeed, he is very serious about his privacy,” said Miss Marple. “What of the other man?”

“His name is Will,” Ellspeth said. “Will Graham. He’s American. He used to be a policeman and then a solider. He is not nearly as interesting as the doctor.”

“How so?” inquired Miss Marple.

“He doesn’t want to talk,” Ellspeth said. “I asked him what he’d done before the war — making conversation, you know — and he said I wouldn’t be very interested as it hadn’t been a pleasant time. I was surprised.”

“I see,” said Miss Marple. “Perhaps it wasn’t.”

“The doctor said that Will had suffered from shell shock during the war and possibly something similar before — apparently that’s why they’ve come here, so that Will may enjoy the quiet of the English countryside.”

“That is a devoted friend.”

“Quite, and so pleasant. Unusual name, though. The doctor’s.”

“He is Russian, isn’t he?” Miss Marple answered. “It’s hardly surprising it would sound peculiar to our ears. What was it?” 

“He said he wasn’t Russian,” Miss Attwell said. “He was Lithuanian, and his name was Lecter. Doctor Hannibal Lecter.”

“It is odd, isn’t it, Jane? Such a strange sound. Rather like snick of a door closing.”

“Or a mousetrap,” said Miss Marple.


	2. Chapter 2

Miss Marple met Dr. Lecter and Mr. Graham herself three days later at a dinner party at the vicar’s. They were a rather striking pair, she thought. The doctor was as impeccably dressed as he’d been before in his driving costume. His taste, while a little daring for Miss Marple’s taste, would not have been out of place in London’s more fashionable circles and almost certainly had been acquired at one of its finer shops. Mr. Graham, by contrast, was a little more casually dressed. Or, she thought, observing him closely, it was less that he was more casually dressed and more that he seemed slightly rumpled in contrast to the doctor’s sterile perfection. He was not less appealing for it; in fact, he seemed more approachable for it. Aside from a scar cutting across his right cheek, the young man bore greater resemblance to a Florentine prince captured from a Renaissance fresco than an American policeman. 

He was also not unkind despite the occasional blunt or abrupt reply. Miss Marple found herself seated next to him and across from the doctor, and, simply because the doctor spent less time speaking of himself and more time directing the conversation at the table, not unlike the conductor of an orchestra, she found herself conversing more with Will. He had his tender spots, she thought, places where he preferred not to be touched, but, if one observed him, even a little, those places were apparent and easily avoided. Once those boundaries were marked and observed, then the conversation flowed rather easily; he enjoyed sportsmanship but was more inclined to fish than to hunt. He had lived many different places in America, but said that was not unusual for someone from that country. He had met the doctor in America before the war and the two had enlisted together, something that Miss Marple found intriguing but that seemed unlikely to be discussed further, and they had remained in Europe after the war traveling from one country to another.

“Hannibal enjoys beautiful things,” Will said in response to her question about why they had stayed. “Art. Architecture. Books. All of which are easier to find here.”

“Music?” asked Miss Marple.

“Yes,” said Will.

“And does he collect these things? He strikes me as someone who might like to collect remarkable things and keep them near.”

“Sometimes,” Will replied. “Sometimes it is sufficient to be around them.”

“And sometimes not?”

“And sometimes not.”

“Have you known one another long?”

“A little less than ten years.”

“And are you happy?”

Will started for a moment, glanced surreptitiously around the table. But no one was paying much mind to them. The doctor had begun to recite poetry from Dante in the original Italian and then translated it after for the table, and all were paying rapt attention to him.

It seemed that he was overjoyed in keeping  
my heart in hand, his arms a gentle bed   
for someone draped in silk—my lady sleeping.  
He woke her. And, respectfully, he fed  
that burning heart to her, who shook with dread.  
Then, as he turned to leave, I saw him weeping.

“The First Sonnet,” concluded Dr. Lecter, “and the hunger of love. Who is to be pitied more here? The author? The lady? Or love?”

“In St. Mary Mead? Are you happy here?” finished Miss Marple, noticing that Will was determinedly not looking at her or at his friend and deciding to take pity upon him.

Will smiled slightly, a quick curve of his lips seen briefly and almost immediately hidden. “Yes,” he said, “I suppose I am.”

She had assumed the doctor had heard none of their conversation, but, from the swift glance he gave them from the corner of his eye, while he accepted the table’s applause, she determined that he had indeed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will arrives in time for tea.

Another three days after that she heard a knock at her door around twilight. She had only begun to clear the remnants of her afternoon tea. The vicar’s wife had arrived later and remained longer than was customary. She had been delayed because she had visited the Crosbys, tenants of the Viscount’s who had been turned out rather suddenly and without explanation. Miss Marple herself was troubled by these events and was considering what might be done to ease their plight when Will Graham arrived upon her doorstep, carrying a strayed and injured hound.

“Hello,” he said. “I wasn’t certain where to go. I’m a little far from home, and I wondered if you knew to whom he might belong.”

“He’s not familiar to me; he might be the Viscount’s but he’s currently in town, so I’m not certain why he’d be out. He may have strayed.”

“Perhaps,” Will said. “Hannibal — Doctor Lecter — would prefer I asked to be sure he wasn’t someone’s before I took in another.”

“Another?” asked Miss Marple. “Have you taken in more than one?”

“I found one,” he said, “here already, but I had taken in several in America. I wouldn’t say he grew tired of them or of feeding them, but I think he was afraid I’d bring home every lost thing I saw, even if ... “

“Even if what?”

“It might not be saved.”

“You have a kind heart,” she said, “and you don’t like to see unnecessary and undeserved suffering. Shall we see if he’s badly hurt?”

“I don’t believe he is, but ...”

“But?” she asked.

“Look,” Will said. “Well, if you’ll help me clean him up a bit, I think you’ll see.”

Miss Marple did. After the first careful wash, it was apparent that the dog’s current injuries were only a few cuts, more likely than not from the brambles in the countryside. It was more apparent, however, that it had been mistreated, sometimes quite badly in the past. She found that both sad and disturbing, and she noticed that Will seemed to find it as difficult, if not more, than she did. 

“I think,” he said, fingers tracing the line of an old scar, “that I will not make any more inquiries and will take him home.”

“How do you propose to take him there?”

“I can carry him, but I think that if we feed him and give him water, he may be able to walk.”

She agreed, and began to look for things they might feed the dog. They settled on some cold chicken she had and a bowl of water. As he ate, Will began to speak with her.

“Is this your home?” he asked. “St. Mary Mead?”

“Yes,” she said, “I was born in St. Mary Mead. I suppose I shall die in St. Mary Mead.”

“That was more common once,” he said, lightly stroking the dog’s back as he ate.

“Being born and dying in St. Mary Mead?” she said lightly. The light in the kitchen remained strong, even at this time of day, and she was able to see his face more clearly than she had at the vicar’s. The scar upon his cheek was fairly recent, within the last five years or so, she thought. It had once been very prominent but had faded. She wondered what had caused it. Perhaps a bayonet? Whoever had cared for it had a neat hand. It had been stitched, and the work was very fine, even elegant. 

“Yes, I supposed it was. The village has began to dwindle with the factories were built in the North. It’s continue to do so long after that fact.”

“I meant being born, living and dying in one place.” Will said. He’d slipped from the chair to sit on the floor near to the dog. Miss Marple noticed that, while he seemed perfectly willing to speak with her, he seldom met her gaze. She had observed that at the vicar’s, but had attributed it to the meal and to the discomfort of being present in an unfamiliar surrounding. He seemed far more comfortable now, but remained unwilling to look at her. That was interesting, she thought and wondered why.

“I know,” she replied, “and you are correct.”

“Perhaps it’s being American, perhaps it’s being modern and American,” he said and smiled. She noticed that it was a softer smile than usual, holding a self-deprecating amusement. “But it has been difficult for me to imagine something to be so very permanent. I lived in more cities and towns than I can remembered; my father and I — we moved where there was work. And Hannibal? His family occupied the same land for centuries. America is a century and a half old. I can’t fathom it.”

“I suppose we do have a longer view of time.” She said and stood. “Let me make some tea.”

“Only if you intended to,” he said. “You don’t need to.”

“It’s what we do here, and it will give him — “ she indicated the dog “more time to rest.” 

“May I help?” He started to stand.

“No, I shan’t put a guest to work. Perhaps another time, Mr. Graham.” She found the kettle, lit the stove and then placed the kettle upon it. “Why did you decide on St. Mary Mead?” 

“That was Chiyoh’s decision,” he said. “She came before us and looked for places. She liked the look of the Vicarage and thought the town suitable for our needs.”

“I see,” she said, and, turning, selected a pleasant afternoon tea. “I am surprised you came to England, but I suppose your friend cannot return home because of the Revolution?”

“He can’t,” Will said, “no. I’m not certain that he’d wish to, even if he could.”

“And he enlisted with you in America.” As the water heated in the kettle, she walked to the cabinet and, considering, choose two cups and saucers of her finer china.”

“Yes.”

“That’s unusual.”

“I suppose,” Will replied. “He was in America, teaching and learning at one of our universities. We met one another there.

“How so?”

“I needed his help to solve a murder,” Will replied. “I was a policeman before the war. I am told you do the same here, for the British police.”

“Ah, yes,” she replied, “I do.”

“How do you find it?”

“You did not say that it seemed odd that I do,” she said, bringing the teacups to the counter. After a moment, she paused, returned to the cabinet and chose a third.

“I had heard it after I had spoken with you, so I did not find it odd, Miss Marple. No one who has listened to you, truly listened to you, should find it anything other than natural.”

She smiled. “I find it interesting, Will Graham, and I find it necessary. There are things people do for which they should answer.”

“We all commit sins for which we should answer.” He had begun to scratch the dog’s ears. Miss Marple noticed how it leaned into his touch.

“Yes,” she said, “I suppose we do. Were yours committed during the war?”

“Those were collateral. The significant ones were before.”

“As a policeman,” she said. “Yes, you must have had to do unpleasant things.”

“Have you, Miss Marple?” he asked. “On the surface, that would seem ridiculous. But the surface is not at all what it seems with you.”

“Is it not?” she asked. “I have been responsible for difficult choices, for revealing uncomfortable things.”

“I see,” he said. “Even in St. Mary Mead?”

“You are a student of human kind, Will Graham,” she replied. “Village life is no different from life in a city; it is simply a smaller canvas on which it is easier to see the patterns and observe the artist’s intent.” 

Will smiled. The kettle had begun to sound and so Miss Marple poured the water and allowed the tea to steep. As she did, she heard a knock at her door. “Would you answer it,” she asked, “and let me know if I need four rather than three cups?”

He turned his head and, for the first time, met her gaze. His expression was inscrutable, though she thought she discerned a measure of respect. “You aren’t expecting anyone?” he asked.

“Only your doctor,” she replied.

He nodded, rose gracefully and walked to the door. She choose a lemon and sliced it. 

“Would you like me to bring you the sugar bowl and the creamer?” The doctor’s voice was smooth and easy.

“That would be very kind of you,” she replied. “I had thought we ought to have tea here in order to watch Will’s charge, but he has finished his meal and seems calm. Should we move to the sitting room? He may follow.”

“I think that might afford a little more room,” the doctor said. “Do you have a tray and I will bring the tea.”

“I do,” she said. “And I have some cold meats, cheeses, and a few other things we might have. It is simple and not precisely conventional, but it will serve our purpose. Give me a moment and I will set those out for us.”

“Of course,” he replied and slipped to the side. “Let me know how I may be of assistance.” She noticed that Will had returned to the dog’s side and that the doctor watched both with interest. He eased himself to the floor next to Will. She watched as he lightly touched Will’s shoulder before curling his fingers around his friend’s forearm.

“How is he?” The doctor’s voice was gentle. Miss Marple noticed that his tone was reassuring, almost as if he spoke to a frightened child.

“He’s alright,” Will replied, his voice terse.

“But he hasn’t been.” It was not a question but was rather an observation.

“No,” said Will.

“I see.” The doctor removed his hand from Will’s forearm and extended it to the dog. Miss Marple watched as the dog sniffed his fingers and then licked them neatly. She watched as the doctor began to scratch under the dog’s chin and behind his ears. “Miss Marple, is there someone in the village in whose care he might once have been?”

“In the village?” she replied. “No. Only the viscount keeps hunting hounds of this type.”

“What type of man is the viscount? Chiyoh has been given to understand that he is somewhat impatient with trespassers, inadvertent and otherwise.”

“He is an impatient man, doctor,” she answered, “and prone to a quick temper.”

“Do you believe this dog to be his?”

“I would only observe that the Viscount keeps hunting hounds, and that a hound well tended is unlikely to stray far from home.”

“Well, we shall have to see that he is cared for from now on.”

“And if he had an owner and his owner claims him?” Will asked.

“What owner?” asked the doctor. “Anyone who’d had possession of him would seem to have forfeited ownership; I don’t think they have the right any longer.”

“Hannibal ...” Will began.

“I would be happy to explain this, if necessary, Will,” the doctor replied. “But I doubt it will be necessary. Do you believe it to be necessary, Miss Marple?”

“I do not,” she said. “In fact, I think it’s perfectly lovely you’ve stopped by to have tea but I see no reason to mention that Will arrived with a dog. In fact, in a few days, with the village festival, I’m sure it will have entirely slipped my mind.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tea is served at the Old Vicarage. The doctor and Will Graham learn more about the Viscount.

“Do explain this village festival, Mrs. Clement,” Doctor Lecter said as he passed a cup of tea to Miss Marple. She took it from him, noting the striking pattern to be one with which she was not familiar. Not English china, she thought, but that was hardly surprising. 

“It’s only a harvest festival,” said Mrs. Clement, the vicar’s wife. She, Miss Marple and Miss MacGillicuddy were seated in the doctor’s sitting room and enjoying a quite extravagant tea. Mr. Graham was also present, but Miss Marple had not yet seen Chiyoh. “Not terribly unusual.”

“I do think the church always looks marvelous,” Miss Marple said. “You’ve taken such great care to be certain it does.”

“Last year’s decorations were extraordinary,” said Miss MacGillicuddy.

“Indeed,” said Miss Marple.

“So the church is decorated,” the doctor said. He had finished serving the tea and had begun to pass a tray of small, savory tarts. Miss Marple noticed an onion tart, then one she assumed to be chicken and one other she couldn’t quite identify, “It’s pheasant, Miss Maple. Pheasant with sage and mushrooms. Venison served with cherries and rosemary, onion with mustard and a cheese served with greens. Will has been insisting that I expand my repertoire to include more vegetables. I will confess to being primarily carnivorous.” 

The ladies laughed. 

“You have always been a proponent of continuing to refine one’s palate and of being creative and resourceful in the kitchen,” Will said. “I’m simply proposing an addition to that.”

“You cook, doctor? Your housekeeper does not.”

“Chiyoh is far too competent and has been with my family far too long to be defined simply as a housekeeper. She was a companion to my aunt and then for me. Now, I would say that she is simply our friend and, while she does assume some responsibilities in the home — we all do, she seldom cooks. I do. I am most particular about what we ingest.”

“Most particular,” said Will. He extended a tray of small and delicate cakes and other pastries. Miss Marple noticed sweet and savory scones, petit-fours and other still more delicate pastries with which she was unfamiliar.

“And, as such, the task of cooking falls to me,” he smiled and passed a plate upon which sat a terrine, partially sliced and garnished with tiny and delicate greens. “Do have some of the terrine. It is a variation on a family recipe.”

“What is the meat,” asked Miss Marple.

“Rabbit,” the doctor said and smiled. She noticed that his teeth were very white, even and with rather pointed canines.

“Purchased or wild.”

“Wild, of course,” he said. “Now, what else happens at this festival?”

“There is usually a dinner,” Mrs. Clement began. “The old tradition was for the farmers to fete those who had worked in the fields. That happens less often, but we tend to host a larger dinner at the vicarage. In other times, it was at Crickhollow, but the viscount is, perhaps, seldom present and often too selective in his company to be the best host.”

“That’s a very polite way of expressing that he is a rude and obnoxious man,” said Elspeth. 

“Ellspeth!”

“We might as well be plain,” Ellspeth replied. “If they are here any length of time, they will discover this. Best to be warned.”

“Forewarned is forearmed,” said the doctor with a smile. “Normally, I wouldn’t engage in such a discussion; I prefer to allow others to draw their own conclusions. But we have already encountered the Viscount or Chiyoh has. Her description of the event confirms your assessment. I abhor discourtesy. Would you care for another scone, Miss MacGillicuddy. We do have more.”

“What happened?” asked the vicar’s wife.

“Chiyoh was walking,” said Will, “and crossed over into his land without realizing it. He took exception and expressed it quite clearly.”

“How clearly?”

“With a shotgun.”

“Did he shoot her? Or at her?”

“No,” said the doctor, “he merely waved it around, but one shouldn’t wave guns around. Not only is it rude, but the possibility for an accidental injury or even death is far too high.”

“One learns to be very cautious around guns during a war,” said Will. He lifted the teapot and refilled Miss Marple’s cup.

“I assume the Viscount’s family has lived here for a rather long time?”

“They are an old, landed family, yes,” said Miss Marple. “Their holdings date back to the seventeenth century. But they fell upon hard times, at least until the Viscount’s father married an American heiress. Her family had invested in factories, I believe, and then in livestock.”

“Slaughterhouses and meat packing,” said Miss MacGillicuddy with a sniff. “But exceedingly wealthy. She was also a sweet woman. They had two children, the Viscount and his sister. Both spend most of their time in London at present. The sister is there presently.”

“How do they get along?”

“I am unsure,” said Mrs. Clement. “He does have control over the family fortune.”

“And no one is more aware of that than Margot,” said Ellspeth. “He sees to it.”

“I heard that he evicted a tenant,” Chiyoh spoke from the doorway. 

“Come in, Chiyoh,” said the doctor. “I am glad you decided to join us.”

She moved gracefully into the room and took the seat next to Miss Marple. Miss Marple noticed that she was as lovely as she had been told and perhaps a little older than she had expected.

“He did,” said the vicar’s wife. “More than one.”

“He also fired most of his household staff and replaced them with Italians. I’m unsure why.”

“Loyalty, perhaps,” the doctor said. “They’d be dependent upon him, wouldn’t they?”

“So would his former servants,” said Chiyoh. “Especially if they depend upon him for a reference.”

“True,” said the vicar’s wife. “That is very true, and there are few homes in the area able to maintain a large staff, not after the war.”

“I would imagine his actions have affected the village greatly then?” Will observed.

“Indeed,” said Ellspeth. “They have.”

“Will he be at the festival?”

“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Clement, “he will most certainly be present. His sister will too.”


	5. Chapter 5

Though she knew it was due to partiality and to sentiment, Miss Marple believed autumn in St. Mary Mead to be truly one of the most beautiful times and places in the world. The trees within and surrounding the village had begun to trade their leafy green for brilliant shades of red, bronze and gold. The wheat in Farmer Giles’s fields had ripened and moved in rich, burnished waves when the lightest breeze touched it. At twilight, too, the air grew cooler and cooler still, and, as the day slipped into night, Miss Marple noticed that there was a scent in the air, a new and different one reminiscent of the smell of lightning after a storm. It was a scent, she thought, signaling change and transformation, and she wondered whether that change would merely be one of the seasons or if it heralded deeper and more complicated shifts within the village and its its inhabitants. 

If there were changes beyond those of the seasons to come, Miss Marple would hardly be surprised. The village had seen many changes since the war. St. Mary Mead was smaller than it had been once, before a summer only a little more than ten years ago had turned to autumn and brought with it changes that would reshape the world and the village with it. So many young and some less-than-young men had not returned. 

Some had been left behind in the fields of Flanders and of France, not forgotten as they lay beneath poppies while one season slipped into the next. Others had returned to England, but not to St. Mary Mead, the old village perhaps seeming too small for some, too confined for others, and, for still more, too empty of once-smiling and familiar faces. Even those who had returned seemed to find the village strange and wore their discomfort like a tight and ill-fitting suit. Miss Marple saw them, the young men grown suddenly older and more grey, thoughtful in ways they’d not been before. Silent and anxious, they started still, even years later, at a sudden noise or they might be caught staring out a window and through a door searching for faces they would no longer meet. 

Perhaps that, that absence, was why so many others had left and not returned, gone away during the war and after to seek work in the great factories that had sustained the war effort and the empire. Perhaps they had preferred to stay amid the bright, anonymity of a great city rather than seeking to return to find a once-familiar place altered and forever changed. Perhaps they feared for others to find that they had been changed. Or perhaps it was something of both.

She wondered how much of this change was apparent to their newest residents. For those few, infrequent visitors and still fewer new residents, the changes the war had wrought in St. Mary Mead might have seemed small and subtle. But she suspected that the doctor, Will Graham and Chiyoh were unlikely to miss much. Chiyoh was quiet but far from unobservant. The few words she had spoken to Miss Marple were indicative of a sharp mind and a heart too familiar with the difficulties and sorrow of the world. The doctor himself had eyes as sharp and watchful as any hunting cat and, much like a cat observing his prey, he quietly and carefully took note of the villagers. He was certainly more than capable of drawing the correct conclusions from the empty cottages for rent, the great houses with the closed upper flowers, the smaller parties and fewer servants, the shuttered shops, and the unmarried women and fatherless children. Will Graham, she suspected, felt that changes as much as he saw them. She had watched him withdraw from more than one gathering as one or another guest mentioned an absent friend or paused, fallen prey to a difficult memory. She’d seen his hand wrap more tightly around his drink and caught him pulling at his collar, no longer comfortable in his formal clothes. She’d also noticed the doctor, quietly solicitous, steady his friend with a hand curled around his shoulder and a smoothly orchestrated change in the conversation. 

Despite or, perhaps, because of this awareness, Miss Marple had been surprised at the ease with which the newest arrivals to St. Mary Mead had settled into the village. As the autumn days passed swiftly by and the time of the harvest festival drew near, Miss Marple observed the three ease their way into village life and fit it as neatly as the doctor fit one of his bespoke suits. She found this intriguing; the three had not seemed designed for village life. 

Miss Marple was aware that the doctor’s not inconsiderable charm and still more considerable talents, not to mention his pedigree, had ensured that the unusual trio had been met with the villagers’ approbation when other, less unusual arrivals had been the subject of their suspicion. The inhabitants of St. Mary Mead were no more prone to romance than those of any other small English village. But the presence of a nobleman, particularly one who’d rather tragically lost his family and his claim to his estate and yet had managed to work his way into success and fortune, appealed to them. Granted, given that the viscount was the noble known best to the village, it was perhaps to less surprising that the villagers would be charmed by this new arrival. 

Yet Miss Marple noted that the doctor seemed unwilling to leave the villagers’ affection to chance. Instead, he deployed his charm and his talents in order to ensure that he and his companions were accepted within St. Mary Mead with such care that someone less observant and less familiar with the peculiar ways of an English village might have assumed his choices and behavior were entirely effortless and incidental. Indeed, they almost seemed so, and yet Miss Marple again found herself reminded of a cat, perhaps the Bantrys’ rather large and beautiful one, seeming half-asleep in the sun and yet perfectly prepared to strike if an unwary mouse came within reach, whenever she happened to be in the presence of the doctor. 

He saw patients frequently enough to ensure that his bonafides as a medical man with expertise in the ailments of the body and of the mind were known and accepted. But he was quite careful to do so in way that did not impose upon the villagers’ goodwill by competing with the Doctor Haydock’s, the current village doctor’s, practice. Indeed, Doctor Lecter limited the times he saw patients to those appointments requested by Doctor Haydock himself, such as when he was out of town or when a second opinion was desired without the inconvenience of having to travel to London. Otherwise, he was most often occupied with his varied interests. Sometimes a villager passing by the Old Vicarage heard him practicing or, perhaps, composing upon a harpsichord. On other days, most often in fine weather, he was observed walking in company with Mr. Graham and Chiyoh. At other times, he was to said to be reading or busy writing an article he hoped to publish in a journal of medical studies. On still other occasions, he was seen sketching while Mr. Graham and Chiyoh worked or busied themselves with their own hobbies. Once, Miss Marple had knocked upon the door of the Old Vicarage with a bottle each of her own dandelion and elderberry wine only to find the doctor and his household busy in the garden. The three were cutting away at the scarcely-contained wilderness that had emerged in the years since the Old Vicarage had been occupied by tenants and were seeking to shape an elegant order from years of neglect. Miss Marple, after having suggested simply binding the most unruly vines and waiting until after the first frost to prune them back — “It won’t be long and will leave you time and energy to concentrate upon more pressing tasks,” she’d said. — had been invited to stay for tea. At that moment, she had become acquainted with the interest the doctor found most consuming and that the villages found most appealing. 

Doctor Lecter, aided by a quietly competent Chiyoh and a bemused Will Graham, loved to entertain and did with a frequency that both shocked and delighted the inhabitants of St. Mary Made. He was also the consummate host, even sunburnt and scratched by wayward bushes. His willingness to welcome the villagers into his home coupled with an ability to host the most extravagant teas, luncheons or formal meals seen by the village did more or so Miss Marple believed to encourage the acceptance of his unusual household than his other talents. That day Miss Marple had found herself seated neatly upon a shaded bench being solicited for her advice concerning English gardens and then, once the proceedings had reached a natural stopping point, partaking of her own dandelion wine served with savory biscuits, carefully sliced figs and cheese, delicate cucumber and watercress sandwiches and a very elegant vichyssoise, all of which was served upon far too elegant plates with too elegant napkins arranged upon a delicate tray brought in from the house with no small degree of circumstance by the doctor while Will laughed and Chiyoh adjusted Miss Marple’s seat to account for the changing rays of the sun. 

“Thank you,” she had said after the meal had been cleared by Chiyoh while Will Graham collected their gardening tools. “This was quite unexpected and very lovely.”

The doctor had inclined his head. “Think nothing ...” he began to respond with some expected and routine response when he followed her gaze to where his friends stood conversing, sun catching their profiles for a moment. “Yes,” he said, voice less smooth than usual, “it is both lovely and unexpected. If you’ll give us a moment to finish clearing, we will be happy to walk you home.”

She had reciprocated the invitation a few days later, including the three in a luncheon with the vicar and Mrs. Clement along with Colonel and Dolly Bantry, and then had followed that invitation with another one for Chiyoh to join her on her morning walks. To her surprise, she found herself to be the recipient of frequent invitations to the Old Vicarage. To her greater surprise, she found that she enjoyed attending the doctor’s increasingly notorious gatherings very much. Miss Marple was wise enough to realize that her enjoyment had less to do with the quality of the food and entertainment and more to do with her own persistent curiosity about the three. Chiyoh was clever and most observant. Will Graham was often brusque and prickly, but that did little to obscure his innate kindness and awareness of the feelings of others. It was true that he was prone to moments of melancholy. But he would eventually emerge from them with a quick smile and a gentle way of teasing those present that caused no injury and even made the too-fastidious doctor smile. The doctor himself presented a puzzle quite unlikely any Miss Marple had yet encountered. Educated he was, cultured and a gracious host, an able medical man and talented at whatever task he set his hand to completing, and yet she had the sense that there was something there hidden under the elegant suits, impeccable manners and flawless entertainment. True, he was most particular, but Miss Marple wondered if that might not represent something beyond mere fastidiousness — if something more than his taste required him to order his life in such a meticulous fashion. Armor and defenses, she thought, needn’t always be made of steel and stone, camouflage was not only the product of paint and fabric, and the perfect attire and impeccable manners might provide a bulwark against the eager curiosity of country folk.

If there were any weakness or, rather, if the doctor’s armor was designed to protect something beyond himself, it would seem to be his household. In the garden of the Old Vicarage, Miss Marple had noticed an attentiveness to the needs of Chiyoh and Will that extended beyond the courtesy offered to her. The doctor was careful to explain to Miss Marple that Chiyoh had been the companion of his youth even as Chiyoh recounted a story of being taught to identify different spices by their scent alone and to hunt all manner of prey. The stories spoke of a shared history and a connection as deep as that of blood relations. No such stories were shared about Will Graham; there were no references to a shared childhood or a familial bond — indeed, there couldn’t have been, given the differences in their ages and the length of their acquaintance, but there was a connection between them — a sense of a likeness, of something shared, despite the striking differences in class, history and temperament. Neither Will nor the doctor spoke of any common experiences prior to their arrival in St. Mary Mead. She listened attentively for any stories of their past, finding herself intrigued the one time when Will, over a supper with the doctor, Chiyoh, Miss Marple and the Bantrys, discuss his youth in a place as different in its way to St. Mary Mead as the doctor’s own home country was. Smiling at Mrs. Bantry’s frustration with the seemingly endless preparations for the village festival, he laughed and said it was nothing to the excitement that surrounding festivals in his birthplace.

“What types of harvest festivals were there in America?” Dolly Bantry had said.

“Many different kinds,” Will had replied. “I remember best those that accompanied the sugar cane harvest in Louisiana.” 

“Sugar cane grew in Louisiana?” Colonel Bantry had muttered, somewhat loudly. “I suppose I knew that.”

“It’s a little odd,” Will had said. “It’s harvested before it’s fully ripe; the growing season isn’t long enough, but there are ways to process and refine it in order to make sugar.”

“And still there are festivals?” the doctor had asked. “Even for harvesting unripened cane?”

“Yes,” Will had replied. “Harvesting and refining sugar cane is hard work; once it starts, it can’t really stop until it’s completed or you risk losing the harvest. People are very glad to let some of the steam off once it’s done.”

“Interesting,” Miss Marple had observed. “I am trying to imagine your world. It seems quite different.”

“It was,” Will had answered, leaning back in his seat and playing with the glass of port before him. “Not only from your life here, but different to the rest of the United States. It was both part of the states and something apart from them, just like it was both in the present and yet caught in the past.”

“How so?” She had inquired as she passed a selection of cheeses, nuts and fruit to her guests.

“You celebrate Shrove Tuesday here?” He’d cocked his head inquisitively.

“Yes,” Dolly Bantry had replied.

“Pancakes and other nonsense,” Colonel Bantry had grumbled.

“As a child, I had fried pastries,” the doctor had said. “Sweet ones in Lithuania.”

“Beignets,” Will had said, smiling.

“Is that what you call them?” Dolly Bantry had been most curious.

“The variant we have there,” he had replied.

“Is it the same elsewhere in America?” Miss Marple had asked.

“I suppose it’s different, depending on where you are,” Will had answered. “But in New Orleans, we were very fond of festivals; we were perhaps a little too fond of Carnival.”

“Carnival?” Dolly Bantry had asked. “Like in Venice?”

“Perhaps,” Will had said lightly. “I’ve not yet been to Venice for Mardi Gras.”

“Something we’ll have to remedy,” the doctor had brushed his friend’s arm as he spoke.

“Silly nonsense.” The Colonel had stood and, finding the bottle of port on the sideboard, poured another glass for himself before offering it to the others. The doctor shook his head slightly.

“I suppose,” Will had answered. “There is a certain amount of frivolity, but it is also quite serious at the same time.” 

“Serious?” Dolly Bantry had seemed surprised “Carnival? With the masques? And celebrations?” 

“Parades and parties,” Will had answered. “But the inhabitants, especially those who’ve been there long enough that their ancestors may be found in the old cities of the dead — the cemeteries, Miss Marple. The city is below sea level, sometimes below the river that flows next to it, and so bodies are usually buried above ground. The cemeteries seem almost like miniature cities, festooned with macabre works of art.— take it quite seriously.”

“An opportunity to be someone else for a day — to do that which one wouldn’t normally,” Miss Marple had said, considering. “I suppose for some that would be a needed and serious endeavor.

“In a sense,” Will had answered. “But the parades are organized by the most influential and wealthy in the city; so, while some may find it an opportunity to be who they cannot be in daily life, others find it to be another opportunity to demonstrate who they are.”

“Despite being masked?’” Doctor Lecter had said and smiled.

“Despite being masked,” Will had replied, meeting his friend’s dark and amused gaze. 

“I suppose that the desires people choose to enact are less different from their own natures than they’d like to think,” the doctor had continued to observe. “If we’re able to imagine them and to act upon them, then they must be part of our deeper selves, even if they are parts we refuse to acknowledge in our everyday lives.”

“It takes more than a paper mask or a day at play,” Will had said quietly, “to hide one’s true nature. Whether it’s Carnival or not, the truth of who we are will always out.”

“Interesting,” Miss Marple had replied.

“Yes,” Will had said, “I thought you’d find it so.”

“What an unusual story,” Dolly Bantry had observed later. The doctor, Will and Chiyoh had left, with the doctor mentioning a need to rise early for a trip to London. “I’ve an old friend in town and wish to enjoy dinner with him,” he’d said smiling that small catlike smile. Mrs. Bantry, the Colonel and Ellspeth remained, however.

“It was,” Miss Marple had answered. “Mr. Graham remains surprising.”

“He does begin to grown on one,” Dolly Bantry had replied. “I had wondered. The doctor is such a consummate host, and Mr. Graham is quite blunt, almost to the point of being impolite. It seemed a strange friendship.”

“Perhaps they balance each other out?” Miss Marple had wondered..

“Come now, Dolly,” the Colonel had said, speaking over Miss Marple as if he hadn’t — as indeed he probably had not — heard. “Will Graham is no different than the other young lads returned from the war. He probably does not feel he has the time to waste upon niceties.”

“I find his actions to be gentler than his words,” Miss Marple had said, “and I find his words to be bound only when he feels the need to defend himself or others. He has a certain sense of fair play that when violated leads him to be quite direct.”

“True enough,” Dolly Bantry had said, “he wasn’t having any of Price-Ridley’s nonsense last Saturday.” 

“No, indeed,” Miss Marple had replied, recalling the tea hosted by Mrs. Clement, “he was not.”

“Whatever had that dreadful woman done?” the Colonel had asked.

“I really shouldn’t tell tales,” Miss Marple had begun to clear the plates and had hesitated before continuing the tale. “Griselda would be most embarrassed if she knew we’d discussed it.” 

“Come now, Jane,” Dolly Bantry had laughed, standing and gathering her own. “You might as well be honest. It isn’t as if half the village hadn’t heard about it or will have heard about it.”

“That may be true,” Miss Marple had answered, “but one shouldn’t gossip.”

“I wonder,” the Colonel had asked, “if it is less polite to gossip or to refuse to inform a friend of an event the impact of which will be felt at the next gathering they’ll attend.”

“Perhaps you should ask Doctor Lecter,” Dolly Bantry had said as she squeezed her husband’s shoulder in passing. “He seems very interested in the finer points of etiquette, rather peculiarly so.”

“Very well,” Miss Marple had said. “Mrs. Price-Ridley may have suggested that the harvest festivals were not as fine as they had been under the Clements’ predecessor. Mr. Graham clearly thought she was unkind and expressed a certain excitement about the festival that was almost certain untrue.”

“Because he doesn’t think Mrs. Clement can manage one?” the Colonel had asked. “I’ll have to admit having my own doubts.” 

“No, that was certainly not the point,” Miss Marple had replied, “because Mr. Graham seems not at all the type to enjoy a village festival.”

“But they will be there, will they not?” the Colonel had asked. “He and the doctor? I’d rather not be left alone with old Protheroe.”

“Oh, yes,” Miss Marple had replied, “I suspect that this is precisely the sort of entertainment the doctor will find both amusing and enlightening, and I am certain that he will insist upon Mr. Graham’s presence if only to heighten his amusement.”

“What do you mean by that?” Dolly Bantry had stopped on the way to the kitchen and was looking at her curiously.

“He will be curious about what will happen with Mr. Graham in an environment with which he’s less than comfortable.”

“That doesn’t seem entirely polite,” Dolly had observed. “Why would you think that? He seems a devoted friend.”

“I believe he is,” Miss Marple had said, “at least to the best of his abilities. But there is an undercurrent of mischief in that friendship. It’s not unlike a little boy who misbehaves a very little — not enough to cause too much trouble but enough to cause some — in order to see if he’ll be found out and, if he is, what the response will be.” 

“How so?” Even the Colonel had looked a bit intrigued.

“He has a tendency to play a little with his seating arrangements, placing Price-Ridley near Griselda on more than one occasion and Mr. Graham near her on the other almost as if he wanted to see whether she’d insult Griselda and how Griselda would respond. He’s far too astute not to have noticed the unease when he has done so.”

“Jane,” Dolly Bantry had responded, “he’s a well-regarded psychiatrist and a surgeon before that.”

“That doesn’t disprove her point,” her husband had replied. “I don’t trust psychiatrists. They’re all too interested in how one responds to provocations.”

“But I didn’t meant to imply that that would be the doctor’s only or even his primary motive. He would know that Mr. Graham would wish to be there to support Mrs. Clement, and I suspect he would wish to be there for the same reason. He seemed to find Mrs. Price-Ridley’s comments rather rude. The satisfaction of his curiosity would simply be an additional benefit.”

“Why on earth ...” Dolly Bantry had begun.

“Amusement,” Miss Marple had said. “Learning what we’ll do. After all, he is a sophisticated man and we are an small English village. He must find it a bit dull here, despite the number of parties he’s hosted.”

“What a odd thing to say, Jane,” Mrs. Bantry had said.

“We can be blinded by our prejudices and what we wish to see,” Miss Marple had answered as lightly as she might. “I think our new visitors are a case in which we should be clear-sighted and not blinded by our preconceptions.”


End file.
